<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Mockingfalcon by MusePlusProcrastination</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995911">Mockingfalcon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusePlusProcrastination/pseuds/MusePlusProcrastination'>MusePlusProcrastination</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative season 8, Background Relationships, Character Study, Gen, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change, The Faceless Men (A Song of Ice and Fire), Vale of Arryn (A Song of Ice and Fire), Villain Protagonist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:08:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusePlusProcrastination/pseuds/MusePlusProcrastination</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Littlefinger uses an old alliance with the Faceless Men to have one of their order take the fall for him in his own execution at Winterfell. Having taken a new face for himself, that of Lord Robert "Sweetrobin" Arryn, the mockingbird is well-positioned to renew his quest for the Iron Throne. And if he has to hold all of Westeros hostage against the colliding forces of ice and fire to get there, so be it. </p><p>"He would see this country burn if he could be king of the ashes." - Varys</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mockingfalcon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I should say now that the "Littlefinger used a Faceless Man to fake his death" idea is not my own (hat-tip to the youtuber who put that together); this is simply my take on what that might have looked like. </p><p>Warning for shaking fits, isolation, and murder of a child.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Though the castle called itself the Gates of the Moon, it was very far from the true Moon Door he knew. Very far from the place he called home. </p><p>Most frustrating of all was that Robin could almost glimpse the Eyrie from here, looking out a window of the Falcon Tower. Over the frost-flecked spears of pine and spruce trees bustling outside the postern gate, along the thin pathway of gouged steps snaking up the silvery slopes of the Giant’s Lance, where the peak of the mountain kissed the misty sky. </p><p>Once, if he craned his neck and squinted fiercely, he would have been able to see the beautiful castle from here, but now the clouds had swallowed it up. They had been gathering with the winter cold – the reason, the lords said, that they would have to remain here. House Arryn’s court always travelled down here for the winter, and always returned to the Eyrie in the spring. But it was also said that winters lasted as long as the summers that prefaced them, and Robin could not imagine staying in this ugly square ruin for seven more years. </p><p>“Not fair.” Not when he had already languished here for three years, in that stupid training yard with that stupid sword and arrow and Lord Yohn Royce’s <em>stupid </em>training. <em>“Not fair.”</em> </p><p>His breath blew out in in a pale plume before the wind smashed it away and snapped at Robin in answer. It lifted his hair and streaked across his face like the backhand Cousin Sansa gave him once. Shivering, he pulled the white bearskin cloak slumped about him to swaddle himself in its warmth, bury himself in the material bearing the sigil of the falcon and moon (<em>his sigil</em>) for protection. </p><p>But it was too late to rebuff the shaking. </p><p>The force of it wrenched him to the ground. His back crashed against the icy marble floor. Spasms wracked his body as he writhed and shrieked and slashed the winter air with his fingers like a broken bird falling from the sky. </p><p>“M-m-my lord!” Arms closed around him, constraining him.  </p><p><em>“Fly!”</em> He heard himself roar. All he could think about was the Moon Door, that familiar marble mouth that ate up every bad man who would hurt him or Mother. The perfect entry back into the Eyrie for anyone who could swoop through it. “Why can’t we just fly back up there?!” </p><p>“I.” Maester Colemon’s speech oft trembled, and his jaw in its place when he had nothing to say. Perceiving an echo of his own shaking in the man meant to be his healer gave Robin poor comfort. </p><p>“Flyyyyy!” It was the only word he had to express how direly he needed to be far from the man’s quaking hold, far from here, far from all this unfamiliarity with the cold and his hurting and the absence of Mother. Even Uncle Petyr had gone. The months gone since the day he rode North to help Cousin Sansa retake Winterfell stretched bleakly out in Robin’s mind like a shadow thrown across a wall. Liquid streamed from his eyes and nose. </p><p>More shadows came. Thundering feet. A blur of voices – <em>get him to his room, stop the shaking</em> – all slurred into each other until their collective noise rang in his ears. Hurting. Hurting until everything pitched to one high, grating keen and the world turned to a puddle before his eyes. His jaw lolled open. That hurt as well.  </p><p>The shaking left him when his back hit his soft bed and so did the rest of his energy. Eventually the noise and grasping hands of his attendants left too. </p><p>He heard Maester Colemon finding his voice for once: “Out, out, I must insist, my lords – our young lord Arryn must be given some space…” But then the blackness returned and Robin would never know if the man had kept himself steady throughout the giving of the order. </p><p>The next voice he heard when he came to was less worried, and more resigned. Nestor Royce, Yohn’s brother. “He’s getting worse, isn’t he?” </p><p>“With the onset of winter, we c-c-couldn’t have expected otherwise. And t-the Citadel predicts a fiercer one than… than ever we’ve seen in our lifetimes.” </p><p>Anya Waynwood began to press them. “If he was always at risk in summer, what in the name of the Seven can we hope for now?” </p><p>“If we lose the young lord, then who will rule the Vale? With Baelish’s fate…” </p><p>“Hush. Only we three can know about the Lady – rather, <em>Princess</em> – Sansa’s letter, at least until we figure out how to break it to the young Lord Arryn. If indeed he actually makes it…” </p><p>Robin’s exhaustion was enough to muffle the usual spark of ire he felt when something was being kept from him. But concern ate at him still. <em>Uncle Petyr.</em> What had Cousin Sansa done? </p><p>He tried to imagine Winterfell, a hulking grey fortress in a vast white expanse, Petyr shivering there among a bristling mass of Northmen. But his only reference for the place was that little snow castle Cousin Sansa once built which did not have a Moon Door. Trying to construct it on those shuddery foundations only made his head throb in protest. Robin closed his eyes and sunk bank into the pillows until the pain dulled. </p><p>When he awoke a second time, there was no one outside his door. <em>Thank the gods.</em> </p><p>He sat up. With the clarity of a mind not gripped by pain nor addled by sweetmilk, he became aware of Alayne beside him, hunched over and blinking at him from the cage he had begged be allowed at his bedside. He was no longer well enough to hawk with her, but it had been amazing to do. She was the best present Petyr ever gave him. <em>A gyrfalcon is the rarest of birds, </em>he said. </p><p>“You could fly to the Eyrie, if you wanted to.” </p><p>He loved her too well even to be jealous of her for it. Alayne ducked her head downward, as if pointing out the jesses around her feet. Perhaps she was right. The weather was too fierce anyway. </p><p>Another raspy growl of wind as cold stole into the room. Robin immediately reached for the linen and furs scattered across his bed.  Two shadows lanced across the floor. He opened his mouth to order them out <em>now... </em>buthis eyes met familiar grey-green ones. </p><p>“I have returned, my lord.” The voice was a croon as soft as Mother’s hand smoothing creases, sweet enough to make everything better. The familiar mockingbird pin winked in the light. </p><p>An excited cry rose in his throat. “Uncle Petyr!” He struggled to wrest himself from the tangled nest of blankets around him as he launched upwards. </p><p>“Hush now, sweetling, don’t try to rise.” His Lord Protector flew to his bedside and fell to a kneel. “Save your strength and your breath. I was told that you were not feeling well, and even if you <em>are</em> being so strong in the face of it, I don’t want it made worse because of me. Least of all as the weather is becoming so treacherous.” </p><p>Robin smiled wetly at him, nose and eyes running again. “I was worried you were hurt!” </p><p>Uncle Petyr stilled. “Has anyone said anything to you?” </p><p>“Nestor, Maester Colemon and Lady Anya were talking outside. They said something was wrong, but only they know what.” </p><p>“Ah.” His stepfather mulled that over. “Something to look into,” he said finally to the woman beside him, still in the dark. Robin had hardly noticed her. </p><p>Then Petyr smiled and brought his attention back to him. “Worry not, my boy. I was able to leave Winterfell. Just in time, it seems. Winter is falling upon us all.” </p><p>“Winter is Coming. The Stark words. Normally the Starks and the Northerners aren’t very smart, but when winter actually does come, they’re suddenly a few steps ahead.” </p><p>“Well, isn’t that the truth, sweetling.” Petyr laughed harshly, and Robin smiled, pleased to be right, if only through parroting what others had said. His stepfather recovered himself and nodded at the cage. “At least you’ve had her to protect you.” The gyrfalcon watched Petyr narrowly, suspicious and appraising. Robin beamed. </p><p>“I named her Alayne.” </p><p>Tension leapt back into Petyr’s frame. “Did you now?” </p><p>For the false name Sansa had gone by in her time at the Vale. He had liked Alayne the bastard girl better than his cousin. A true bastard would never have slapped him. Would not have been privy to so much more than he ever was from the Vale lords. </p><p>“But you are my most loyal protector, Uncle. I missed you.” </p><p>“I know, Sweetrobin. It must have been hard without me around to help you, and out of the castle you have called home – your ancestors’ home – for four years.” </p><p>“I never wanted to leave the Eyrie. Mother always said it was dangerous. And now – now out here, I’m scared, and sick, and...” </p><p>Petyr turned to the figure at his side. “Minirah, the medicine.”  </p><p>She nodded and produced a vial of clear liquid that she poured into a little wooden bowl. It looked like water and smelled of nothing.  </p><p>“It will put an end to your pain, my lord,” she said, more confidently than Colemon ever sounded, in her funny accent that sounded a little like the cadence of Petyr’s voice in places. <em>Braavosi, like him? </em>His unclehelped, holding the bowl in one hand and cradling Robin’s face in the other. Helping him drink. Like a falcon feeding its young. </p><p>It was ice-cold going down his throat. As he swallowed, Petyr’s hands fastened around his own. </p><p>“Now, little one. It is true that many threats lie outside of the Eyrie. But as I told you, people can die in their beds as well, Sweetrobin. They can die of anything, at unexpected times. On their chamberpots, even. That is why it is so important that a person makes what they can of the life that they have. <em>Take charge of your life, for as long as it lasts. That is what it means to be lord of the Vale.</em> Do you remember me telling you that?” </p><p>“Yes, I remember! I remember, Uncle.” </p><p>“Good boy.” His grey-green eyes swooped over Robin’s supine form. “Well, I fancy you can’t very well be expected to do that now. But never fear, sweet lord. I shall do all in your place.” </p><p>“Oh, <em>thank</em> you…”  </p><p>Robin strained for more words but the blackness returned anyway. He could not stave it off, he was too tired. It brought no pain with it, save a strange numbness, but the world started to blur and fade again. Every haul of breath was suddenly more an effort than the last.  </p><p>It was Alayne’s stricken cry that told him something was wrong. That this was somehow unlike any of his usual episodes. He had scarcely any breath left. His eyes snatched onto his stepfather, searching desperately for the answers Uncle Petyr always had, but his face was too blurry now. Spiralling farther and farther away into the rising cloud of blackness. </p><p>Robin dimly reflected that it felt like he was flying. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>